


I Want Candy

by ELG



Category: X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Consent Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ELG/pseuds/ELG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Grey made them do it…or did she?</p><p>NEW. Inexcusably cracky fic contains: dodgy Sleeper!PhoenixJean characterization, just generally dodgy Scott Summers characterization, Logan/Scott Angry!Hate!Sex, and some completely gratuitous LesYay (although not enough to justify tag-teasing any Emma Frost/Jean Grey shippers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want Candy

Knowing him so well, Jean Grey could hardly fail to be aware that Hank McCoy – although certainly most sincerely sympathetic to the afflicted party – was also almost hopping up and down with excitement at the prospect of assessing the victim for himself. It was just good luck, as Hank kept pointing out, that the Muir Island mutant biohazard program was – thanks to Shi'ar assistance – so wonderfully advanced. This time when Logan had rung all the warning bells in a place, it hadn't been because his adamantium-bonded skeleton was setting off every metal detector, but because he was interestingly infected with a fascinating virus that Hank could only _hope_ wouldn't be healing-factored entirely out of his system by the time Storm flew him home. (Moira had taken samples in any case, Hank assured Jean, and she was sending those results straight over.) Unable to wait any longer, Hank hurried off to the landing bay so he wouldn't miss even a second of Logan's interesting condition.

Jean was also curious – both as a scientist and a teammate – to see exactly how the phenomenon manifested itself, but she had other things on her mind right now, and was grateful to have the lab to herself. One didn't have to be a telepath to know that one's boyfriend had something nagging at him that he was choosing not to share – especially given that she had known him since he was a teenager. And, unfortunately, rather too much like a teenager, at present Scott was moody, remote, and miserable. If he was not actually listening to a lot of melancholy acoustic guitar solos, sticking up the obligatory poster of Che Guevara, and agitating to paint his bedroom black, he was going for long rides on his motorbike – when Logan hadn't borrowed it – or locking himself in the Danger Room for endless bruising workouts. Had she been a woman of less stalwart self-control she would, weeks since, have gatecrashed his trying male mind and had a good rummage around for clues. Being – though she said it herself – a fricking paragon of virtue, to whose self-restraint Scott should really be writing odes – she was just getting that mournful twanging along their psychic connection, like suicidal crows slow-dancing on a telegraph wire.

She would have been – had been in fact, at first – filled with tender sympathy for him. He had the ability – always had – to hurt her where she lived. She could not bear harm to come to him; could not bear for him to doubt himself; could not bear for him to be unhappy. Which was why, for the first few weeks of his concerted moping, she had just wanted to put her loving arms around him and make it all better. She had felt like that right up until the moment when her love for him stopped blinding her to what should have been obvious to any self-respecting telepath from Day One – that what Scott Summers was blaring out on every frequency, like a badly-tuned radio station, was a lot of self-loathing – of the kind broadcast exclusively by adulterers.

That was when she had stopped wanting to comfort Scott and wanted – quite insistently – to hit him. Hard. Again, the fact that she had not done so could be put down to her excellent self-control. The Professor had always told her that it was important that she kept a rein on her feelings, that powers such as hers lent themselves all too easily to abuse. The sensual must be sublimated to the rational and intellectual because when one could violate the mind while simultaneously snatching up the body and say – hurling it through the nearest window so it landed, splashily, in the koi pond – self-control was an absolute must.

Which was why, so far at least, Scott's breakfast cup of coffee, as she handed it to him with a bright, only slightly scary, "Here you are, dear," had _not_ been accompanied by either a 'You cheating whore, Summers!' or a resounding slap. Yes, the windows had shaken a little, and so had the crockery – Scott had been too dejected to notice as he chewed his way through _her_ favorite brand of cookies instead of eating something healthy, but Bobby and Rogue had given Jean a wary look and finished their breakfast extra fast. Jean had noticed that – as they sidled out of the room – they had given Scott an anxious look, as if they were concerned about his safety. Given all the self-control she was exercising, that had just been annoying.

Of course, her first thought had been of Emma Frost – not a mere gold-plated gold-digger but an actual diamond-plated Hellfire Clubbing bitch-queen who had been trying to get her painted talons into Jean's Scott for years. Yes, it had been big of her to shield his teenage body from bullets with her – surely scantily-clad – torso in the past; that did not give her a free pass on jumping his grown-up body now. (Scott's grown-up body, every fabulously taut, honed, athletic inch of it, was Jean's, and if Scott was even daring to dream – even in the dimmest, darkest depths of his subconscious – of becoming the filling in a telepath sandwich, he could think again – right after he climbed out of the koi pond, because if she so much as _suspected_ –)

Jean realized that the windows were rattling again and that she needed to take some calming breaths. She also felt just the slightest twinge of guilt, because, okay, if Scott was daring to dream of threesomes, he was not alone. She loved Scott, truly. She loved his inner man and his outer man and the boy he had been and the senior citizen she hoped they both lived long enough for her to meet. But being a Good Woman In Love With A Good Man was not the same as being a woman who was blind or dead. 

Logan had not succeeded in getting her into bed – and it was just one of his contradictory appeals that had he done so she would no longer be the woman he fantasized about and idealized in equal measures and then they might both be freed from this maddening undertow of attraction. He had, however, succeeded in getting under her skin. His body was very different from Scott's long, lean smoothness. It was dense and furred and fabulously strong. His muscles were steel ropes, every ligament and tendon clearly traceable by a curious finger or a tentative tongue. Scott was all carefully accumulated layers of control. His passions were deep but he tried to keep them hidden, like his still-boyish innocence and his ability to be hurt, even now, by yet another careless injustice. Scott's Gaudí brain was near-geometric in its precision; always ready to strategize – better able in fact when there was no time for the doubts to get through. Sharpened through years of self-discipline, with the spatial awareness of a savant, there were the odd memory-blocked craters, like bombed out areas of an otherwise elegant city, but it was mostly a place of sanity and strict right angles, with everything made beautiful by unexpected arches. By comparison, some days, Logan was just raw id. He could be basic. In fact he could be downright primal; a pre-architectural mind as maddening as it was tantalizing: swamp-hot and murky with frustrated sexual longings; the Past memory-barren as lava glass, all cruel cutting edges, the Present geyser-steamed by sudden temper flares; all molten with loyalty and buried kindness. Like Scott, Logan was afraid of what he might do if he ever lost control, and, as with Scott, Jean found herself hungering for that loss of control, just a little.

She supposed it was the thought of that incredible physical strength coupled with the raw tenderness which he tried to hide beneath his gruff, unsavory surface that so called to the heart and to the hormones. It was almost impossible to be in the company of a man so primal and _not_ think about sex. She had never said or done anything to encourage him, she hoped, but she couldn't help the way a part of her found him desirable or do anything about the fact that when they got too close, he could almost certainly scent the fires he lit inside her that she did her best to keep banked down.

So, to summarize for the slow kids at the back of her subconscious, she supposed some might consider it slightly hypocritical on her part that any treacherous thoughts Scott might be indulging in of Emma/Scott/Jean antics made Scott a bad, mind-cheating boyfriend who needed to be spanked, but thoughts of Logan/Scott/Jean equaled a sudden warmth between her legs, and a sharp spasm of something that could only be classified as _ohgodyes_. However, since she had recognized the guilty signs of Scott's infidelity, she had felt freed to indulge her own fantasies and it had been almost shocking how fast they had flowed in. 

One minute she had been a Nice Girl who thought – mostly – nice thoughts in bed, and the next she was imagining Logan's tongue delving skillfully between her legs before he shoved it hungrily down Scott Summer's throat. And that had been the second shock to her previously virtuous system – that once she let those thoughts flow in, how quickly they had evolved. Her fantasies had started with two gorgeous men licking and fingering and filling her special places – guilt-inducing enough when only one of those men was pledged to her and he not the kind to share – but worst was to come. Because, with shocking speed, once she let Logan start tonguing Scott in her mind, he was licking him, well…everywhere. Then Logan's strong, slicked fingers were probing Scott's innermost secrets, and the idea was so exciting that she had found herself breathless, panting, and moaning as her fantasy!Logan forgot all about fantasy!Jean in his single-minded determination to explore, possess, and utterly dominate a plundered fantasy!Scott.

Jean had needed to bite the pillow to muffle her keening cry as that image went home like a sex toy to the G-spot. She discovered – with shameful excitement – that absolutely nothing got her from zero to sixty faster than the thought of Logan pounding Scott. The threesome idea still had its power, certainly, but that was a champagne dinner seduction compared with the Spanish Fly vision of Logan banging her boyfriend's beautifully tight ass. She liked to picture Scott's face as Logan entered him: the flickers of pain and guilt and shame so utterly overwhelmed with pleasure as Logan slid in to the heavy-balled hilt. She liked to imagine the little moaning sounds he'd make and the way his spine would arch in response to that long, thick cock thrusting home, and imagine Logan with one hand gripping his right shoulder, another steadying his left hip, as he took him with firm, unrepentant strokes.

Had Scott not been doing whatever it was that made him reek of guilt and shame, she would have been abject with guilt and self-loathing. To turn two men who didn't even like each other into her mental puppet theatre. To permit those lurid thoughts to flood a mind to which her loving, innocent boyfriend was so delicately connected. And, worst of all, when Scott was struggling to maintain his role as leader in the face of Logan's constant undermining of him, to arouse herself with images of Scott so utterly, abjectly, _whimperingly_ submitting to Logan's alpha male dominance was just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong_. 

Except, if Scott _was_ whoring off with Emma Frost – or even contemplating whoring off with Emma Frost – he totally had it coming.

(And, ironically, since she had been mentally letting Logan lay out Scott on their bed – sometimes spread-eagled for better exploration by a hungry tongue, sometimes on his knees, with his hands bound behind his back, and jolted near-brutally to a deep-groaning climax – and Jean was therefore naked and unattended, she had been thinking that, well, on the whole, Emma _might_ as well be there, as long as she wasn't in any way straddling Scott. (Indeed, what better way to guarantee that Scott's virtue remained unsullied by any Hellfire Club bitch-queens and their sparkly-hard diamond shells – even if they happened to be naked and in the room – than to ensure his virtue was being breathlessly pounded out of him by a possessive, growling Wolverine who would slice Emma Frost up like prosciutto before he let her get a look-in?) Emma had her faults – so very many faults – but she did have a great figure. Her breasts – to give the evil hellbitch her due – were fabulous, all high and firm and permanently erect even when they weren't being licked. She could probably do things to the erogenous zones with her mind even as her fingers were doing incredible things in a girl's damp inner places, and then there was her lapping, flicking tongue, and she would know how to push those fingers in just a little too hard and give them the right kind of twist while her mouth closed on a nipple and a girl found herself uttering a strangled scream for mercy that she hoped would never be granted…. So, to summarize her summary, apparently Emma/Scott/Jean was a problem because of Jean not wanting Scott to be shared, sampled, or even too closely scrutinized by another woman while Jean had a breath left in her body, not, in fact, interestingly enough, because of the Emma/Jean part of the proceedings. Meaning, she supposed, that as long as Scott absolutely only looked and never, ever allowed himself to be touched – except by Jean – Emma/Scott/Jean could possibly be a thing. As long, of course, as Logan/Scott was also a thing; preferably a hard, sweaty thing with some strangled whimpering.)

Such, today – as she ate her way through a tub of Ben and Jerry's and a carton of chocolate-walnut cookies – was the guilty, defiant tangle of Jean Grey's innermost thoughts. (She really hoped the Professor did not decide to perform a fly-by check up on her mental health or he might get something of a shock – although, given how close he and Magneto had once been, the air between them still sizzling even now whenever they met, as if they carried with them their own desert storm, perhaps not.)

And, of course, it was just possible that she was being very slightly influenced by the fact that, since he had been plagued by all that adulterous guilt and self-loathing, her lean, handsome, long-legged, chisel-cheekboned boyfriend with his silk-smooth skin and his high, taut ass, and his long, lickable eyelashes and his incredibly athletic staying power was _not putting out_. Just possibly.

As the windows gave another rattle of frustration and she opened another carton of cookies, Jean looked down at the preliminary notes she had made for the care and treatment of their incoming patient and his exposure to a contagious mutant-borne virus, and found that she had written:

_I wish I had a lover who_  
 _Did not angst as much as you_  
 _But who, when filled with doubt and fear,_  
 _Shut up and got naked, dear._

She quickly tore that page off the pad and turned back to the _proper_ notes she had made. Those read:

_Diamonds may twinkle like a star  
But Emma Frost's still a skanky whore_

That one didn't even rhyme or scan. That, too, was quickly hurled into the wastepaper basket. Which was when the doors flew open and Storm flew gracefully into the infirmary on a gust of icy wind and said, still calmly, despite her obvious haste, "Jean, we've found the source of the contagion and the means to concoct the antidote. Beast is confident that he can synthesize it within a few hours."

She was a little nonplussed by Storm's sense of urgency, as all the preliminary blood tests on Logan had suggested that his mutant ability was more than capable of dealing with it. "I thought Moira McTaggart said that Logan's healing factor would flush it out of his system in any case?"

Storm grimaced. "It is flushing it out of his system, Jean, that isn't the problem. The problem is that he keeps being re-infected. It's a psy-virus, you see."

"You mean, I gave it to him?"

If Storm had looked a little lacking in her usual serenity before she looked positively uncomfortable now. "Actually – we think you may have given it to Scott, or Scott possibly gave it to you, or Logan may have – the truth is we don't know exactly where the original virus came from, we just know that it seems to be…gaining strength."

Jean tried hard not to flush. She thought of her window-rattling sexual frustration and shameful thoughts about Submissive Scott; then she imagined similar symptoms swirling around in Wolverine's primal psyche. "Oh dear – was he very difficult on the journey home?"

"There was a lot of compensatory stress-eating," Storm admitted. "The Blackbird is now entirely cleaned out of cookies."

Jean automatically brushed the cookie crumbs from her own clothing. Logan had all her sympathy with that over-eating transference. "Where is he now?"

"In the Danger Room," Storm said. "Ironically, it seemed like the safest place."

***

Scott Summers was less wandering lonely as a cloud than moping miserably like a mutant. He knew that Jean was going to work it out. He was psychically linked to Jean, making Jean the unfortunate recipient of all his mewling subconscious yearnings, including Logan – God help him – making him take it like a man. The woman he loved was going to know that he, Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men, had a thing for Wolverine. He wondered if it was actually possible to die of mortification and, if so, why it hadn't happened yet. He would have thought that being a guy who could absorb solar energy into atom-blasting beams would have given him a head start on being able to self-immolate out of sheer shame. The wonder was that she was only being a little short-tempered with him. He knew her clever subconscious must be cataloguing those half-felt yearnings and squirmings and would already be hard at work re-assembling the scattered tapestry of all his cut-off thought-threads. Soon – much too soon – she would, as the Victorian novels ominously said, Know All.

Scott clutched his hands to his head, stumbling back to the mansion in a haze of misery. His self-esteem was in the toilet right now. It had gotten so bad he'd been stress-eating like cookies were the answer to all life's problems. He didn't feel like the leader of the X-Men any more. He didn't even feel like a teacher. He literally couldn't remember the last time when he had felt in any way empowered, but he knew it was before Logan had arrived to undermine him at every step. There were not enough bracing walks or long, cold showers in the world. A lashing chill might douse his longings for a while; he might be able to sublimate them in focused training; but then they always came roaring back, powerful, angry, and Logan-shaped. 

He kept remembering the way Logan had lifted him off the ground in one irritable yank, and imagining that same careless strength put to better use. He wanted to grab back and pull down, and bite hard. He wanted to throw him across the room, on the strict condition that Logan came charging back and pinned him to the floor for it. He wanted to set loose all his irritation and frustration with the guy in a lashing red wave, and he wanted to be manhandled and slammed and pounded in return. Everything he wanted where Logan was concerned was brutal and out of control and inexcusably basic – just like the guy himself.

And thinking about it was really not helping because he now needed either six cold showers or some bruising misuse.

The Danger Room it was then. Maybe getting thrown around the place by some computerized bad guys would get the Wolverine-lust out of his system. Something had to because he couldn't go on like this, living with all this guilt and self-loathing every day while waiting for Jean to find out that he was having sexual fantasies about someone else, or – worse – for Logan to find out; because if he did, he probably would throw Scott across the room – just not in a good way.

Thinking of the rank unfairness of it, when he had always tried so hard to be good, Scott slammed his fist against the Danger Room door, the anger spiking again as he thought bitterly, 'Why, of all people, did it have to be _him_?'

That was when the red haze of his misery, coupled with the ruby haze of his quartz lenses combined to stop him noticing the red light outside the room. He opened the door, stepped inside, and –

Sabretooth was on him out of a steaming jungle. No warning. Scott's reflexes were all that saved him from evisceration; even as the air was displaced, the place shaking from that raging roar, he had a hand to his visor and got off a blast before he was dragged down by raking claws. The air was thick with the smell of singed fur and the impact had at least slowed him a little, but, unfortunately, wounding Sabretooth just made him angry, and, unlike poor, tormented Bruce Banner, _no one_ liked Sabretooth when he was angry, and with very good reason. One clawed hand grabbed his right wrist as the other landed a punch that made his senses swim. Scott kicked him off with everything he had, and then rolled, spitting blood from his cut mouth, a hand to his visor in readiness, heartrate raised, adrenaline pumping, reflexes honed to knife-edge clarity. When Sabretooth pounced, roaring, he was ready for him, a beam straight to the chest that knocked him back, except, as he was dealing with that Sabretooth, a second came out of nowhere and tackled him low, slamming him face-first to the ground. Claws raked, a stinging lash across his shoulders, and then a kidney punch stole his breath. Scott slammed his head back sharply to meet a reverberation of bone, and followed up with a well-placed elbow jab that connected with a satisfying crunch. Maddened by the pain, Sabretooth the Second hurled him into the jungle.

As he was falling towards a primordial swamp in which a giant crocodile was already opening hungry jaws to receive him, Scott blasted a branch so that it fell neatly into the open jaws and sank the crocodile under the murky surface. Another blast – as he spun dizzyingly through the air – felled a tree across the swamp in time for him to land lightly upon it. As other long-nosed beasts snapped up out of the depths, Scott caught a trailing liana and vaulted over clashing teeth to land on the mist-wreathed shore. 

And, at last, he could catch his breath for long enough to think 'Who the hell thinks up a scenario like this?' He could hear the far-off beat of drums and the crashing of a great weight displacing primordial trees; the roaring of those distant monsters made no more pleasant by the acrid, sulfurous air which hung heavily all around him, like a brimstone sauna. When Scott looked up, it was to meet the spearpoint-headed gaze of a huge flying reptile, leather wings raised in readiness for predatory flight. Whoever he or she was who had authored this particular set-up, he or she clearly needed many years in therapy, because this might as well be called Come Paddle In My Lizard Brain. 

Which was when three Sabretooths came at him at once. Scott was fast; the first one was blasted back mid-roar, a spin off the heel and the second was knocked into the swamp; but even he wasn't fast enough to get the third, who smashed into him with brutal force, and bore him down on the primordial shore. Pain exploded in his jaw from a vicious punch, stars danced in front of his eyes, then Sabretooth's claws were ripping off his clothes while his malevolent gaze burned into Scott's, and he said, "I have you now, my pretty…."

Which was when Sabretooth and the swamp dissolved all around him and Scott found himself lying on his back in the Danger Room with his clothes shredded, his face aching, and a really bad temper coiling up from his groin.

"Are you insane, Logan?" he yelled.

Logan said, "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would program in three Sabretooths, two giant crocodiles, and a pterodactyl in a pear tree!"

Logan limped into his sight, clothing equally shredded, and skin only just growing back over multitudinous deep wounds. He had swamp in his hair. "I wanted a challenge."

"Well, you look like crap," Scott told him.

Logan hauled him to his feet. "You think you don't?"

"I'm not the idiot who combined the Savage Land scenario with three Victor Creeds."

"Four Victor Creeds – the other one was still tracking you, and it ain't the Savage Land. Don't you ever take five minutes off from being a tightassed pretty boy to go to the movies?"

Their faces were very close, Logan had his fingers curled angrily in the remnants of Scott's uniform, pulling him in so their mouths were almost touching. Finding his gaze riveted by Logan's mouth, Scott moistened his lips and said, "What do the movies have to do with anything?"

Logan growled, "King Kong, Summers. Ain't you ever seen King Kong?"

The anger spiked up higher. "I don't believe it! You've been having some Jean-shaped fantasy woman stand in for Fay Wray while you rescue her from a giant ape?"

That growl of Logan's seemed to come all the way up from his boots, and it was so exactly the growl that had been permeating all of Scott's shameful secret fantasies that it made every hair stand on end and his cock harden, agonizingly, to immediate attention. He was still trying to suppress a long, shuddering moan of arousal when Logan leaned in, even closer, to whisper hotly in his ear: "No, Bub, the person I was rescuing – the one in the fur bikini tied out for the big monkey – that was all you." 

So, of course Scott took a swing at him. And suddenly they were grappling, their ripped clothing ensuring that every time they touched they rubbed skin against skin against frayed leather against more damned skin. For a guy trying to hide an erection, being ground against the object of his desire with all that ribbed, leather-edged vigor was the worst kind of torture. Scott punched Logan hard on the jaw, and Logan came back with redoubled rage and slammed him into the wall of the Danger Room with punishing force. 

Scott yelped at the bruising impact, which made Logan's eyes go from angry to angry-and-lust-filled, and made Logan slam him back again. Scott couldn't entirely suppress a pained whimper, but he was too hypnotized by the murky desire now blazing in Logan's eyes to retaliate. When Logan grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head back, all Scott could do was brace himself for impact, but before Scott's skull cracked against the walls of the Danger Room, Logan's other hand shot out to cradle the back of his head, cushioning it. Another low growl escaped as he yanked Scott forward, impaling Scott's mouth on his tongue. Scott grabbed Logan by the shirt and dragged him closer, even though they were already bruising each other, even though it was impossible for Logan to shove his tongue even further down his throat, still Scott craved, angrily and hungrily. He clasped Logan's face in his hands, kissing him back every bit as hard, groaning as his tongue pushed back and met that forceful resistance. Logan grabbed his wrists and crossed them over Scott's head, slamming them against the wall as he growled again.

Scott said in a voice he barely recognized, "You're an animal, Logan."

And Logan growled, "I'm the animal who's going to fuck you till you beg for mercy."

Scott sneered, "Prove it, tough guy."

Logan threw him away from him like he couldn't trust himself and Scott felt his body bend and twist instinctively, every muscle perfectly controlled, as he back-flipped athletically to land on his feet. Logan sprang after him, like he was prey, and the punch Scott threw to meet him, straight from the shoulder, caught Logan perfectly on the jaw, and knocked him staggering six steps to the side. Logan straightened up, grinning a wolfish smile, and wiped the blood from his split lip a bare second before it healed. "Think _you_ can take _me_ , do you?"

"When you take me, Logan, it'll be because I want you to."

And Logan sprang, animal-fast, snatching Scott up by the front of his shirt and propelling him into the wall with a savage, body-bruising slam. His voice appeared dragged up from the deepest pits of hell. "And do you want me to?"

"God, yes!"

Then they were kissing like artillery fire – in viciously prolonged bursts, Logan grabbing Scott by the hair to drag his head down, Scott grabbing Logan by the ripped uniform to pull him up to meet him. They grappled for dominance, Logan thumping Scott against the walls while Scott pushed him off only to pull him back again, angrily, a second later. They snapped at each other like bad-tempered dogs while their tongues wrestled and their cocks hardened, and the frustrated moans bled from their bitten lips.

Infuriated and inflamed, Logan slammed Scott down onto the floor and straddled him. "You're a fuckin' prick-tease, Summers!"

Scott flung him off him with agile strength. "You're the one who's too slow to catch cold!"

Snarling Logan grabbed Scott by the ripped remnants of his leather uniform and dragged him over his body in a smooth roll before pinning him back on the floor. "You've been flaunting that ass in my face for weeks!"

"Were you waiting for an engraved invitation?" Scott jeered.

Growling a blood-curdling growl, Logan grabbed him by the hair again, slammed his head back onto the floor and kissed him with bruising force. Scott shoved his tongue back to meet his, furiously, while tearing at Logan's shredded one-piece in frustration. Logan grabbed Scott's uniform, double-handed, and ripped it off his torso with a roar.

"You'd better buy me a new one of those!" Scott flashed back, eyes snapping with anger.

Logan ripped off his own uniform with another roar. "Get undressed!" he yelled at Scott, who, despite dearly wanting to oppose him, was being driven by his own needs too hard not to be already tearing at the last remnants of his own clothing.

"Fuck you!" Scott snapped, then groaned before he could stop himself at the sheer misery of not yet having Logan's body covering his. 

Logan grabbed his ripped pants and dragged them downwards, hauling them off Scott's long legs with extravagant ferocity and hurling them aside. Then – finally – they were naked, and could thresh and nip and tug at one another unimpeded. They rolled across the floor of the Danger Room, biting and kissing and bruising one another until Logan grabbed Scott by the hair and flipped him over. Straddling him, Logan growled, "You wanna cry off, Summers, now's the time –?"

"What's taking you so long?" Scott sneered back. "You got performance issues, Wolverine?"

Which was when Logan spat on his hand, smeared saliva on his cock and rammed himself home.

Scott's wail of pleasure echoed off the walls like battle song.

 

Scott slowly surfaced from the best blissed-out orgasm his body had ever known, everything still pleasurably thrumming, to find Logan leaning over him anxiously, eyes full of concern while he cupped a gentle hand to Scott's singing cheekbone and said, "God, Scott – are you okay?"

Scott's brain had never worked so fast. His body felt like…this, because he and Logan had just gone at it like rabid dogs on the floor of the Danger Room. Given that he and Logan did not usually do…that, and that if they had done that he doubted they would have planned to do it in a viewable communal space without the privacy settings switched on – not to mention that his inherent be-preparedness balked at the spit-for-lube part of the proceedings – that meant they had either been straight-up crazed by long-frustrated lust or – almost certainly – under some kind of outside influence. Going by Logan's shocked-and-appalled expression and his whole oh-my-god-what-did-I-just-do-eyes, hard, sweaty sex had, at least temporarily, got that outside influence out of his system. Scott supposed he should be feeling shocked and appalled as well, but it was a little difficult with that orgasm still humming so nicely through his nerve-endings. His pounded ass had never been happier. Also, Logan never looked more handsome than when he ditched the gruff loner persona and let his inner good guy shine through. It was…nice to have all that concern in Logan's eyes be for him. Scott gave him his best reassuring smile.

"Adrenaline and testosterone, I presume?"

Logan helped him to sit up – even though Scott was perfectly capable of sitting up by – oh, okay, he was feeling that, it was true, but he kind of liked the afterburn, if the truth were told, the stubble burn making his jaw sting and that inner tenderness – but it was also weirdly pleasant to have Logan holding him by the upper arms as if he were made of porcelain. Even more pleasant when Logan gently stroked Scott's mussed hair back from his face and inhaled his scent, anxiously, checking for pain.

Logan said, "What?"

"Someone amped up our adrenaline and testosterone, right? Alpha male stag-rut behavior spirals into out of control mating behavior with the closest thing to hand?" Even Scott was impressed by how calm he sounded.

Logan said, "I don't know what it was. I just know we – Are you okay?"

"Fine. Are you?"

Logan blinked. "What?"

"Are you okay? I remember getting a little…rough."

"I'm not the one who got –" Logan broke off in confusion. "You're taking this very calmly."

"Logan, I hate to make fun of the new guy, but I do live in a school which lays out the welcome mat to hormonal adolescent mutants who are in no way used to their often very new powers. What you and I just did is barely registering on my weird-shit-that-happens-during-my-average-week scale."

And good old pissy Wolverine was back. Scott was hauled up and placed – still quite gently – on his feet, Logan clearly torn between checking him out for injuries and not touching any more naked parts of him. "So, you think this is normal?"

Scott shrugged. "Guys have sex all the time."

Logan waved an impatient hand between them. "But you and I don't."

"Which is kind of a shame because that was…pretty good, all things considered. I think for first-timers we did rather well."

Logan gave him a look of disbelief. "Yeah, we deserve a gold star. Aren't you sore?"

"Angry sore…?"

"Just had a dick up your ass sore!"

"Off the scale adrenaline, Logan, coupled with lots and lots of urgently pumping pheromones. You could probably amputate my leg right now and I'd barely I'd feel it. You didn't find…you and me kind of hot?"

Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in close, mouth-to-mouth, to growl savagely, "Of course I found it hot! It's the hottest sex I ever had in my life! All I wanna to do right now is shove my tongue back in your mouth and lick your tonsils!" He wrestled his raging lust-flare back under control and forced himself to unclench his fingers from their bruising grip, taking a trembling step back. "The sick thing is I'm sure I'm in my right mind now and I still wanna throw you back down and fuck you all over again."

Heat flared up Scott's thighs and then pooled, molten and insistent, in his belly. "I've had worse offers." And, okay, shocking Logan was way too much fun, but he couldn't resist a little payback. "I'm not saying that next time some foreplay wouldn't be nice. Maybe some Astroglide…."

"I could have really hurt you!" Logan said angrily.

"But you didn't," Scott pointed out calmly. "Even crazed with…whatever the hell that was, lust-pollen or mind-control – you didn't hurt me at all. Sorry if I bit your tongue in the heat of the moment. I got a little carried away. Also, if I did punch you in the face while we were doing it, that probably wasn't the lust-pollen – that was probably all me, so, sorry for that, too, but you could try being less annoying."

Logan stomped off dramatically, giving Scott the opportunity to appreciate his incredibly ripped body, those broad shoulders, that amazing, strong muscular ass, both going away and then – as he stomped dramatically back – coming forward. He had thought nothing could improve on the going away scenery but the coming back landscape was even better. Logan was an impressive man on every possible level and he had clearly not really…calmed down yet; in fact, he seemed to be calming…up. Enjoying himself now, Scott made no pretense of not savoring the view.

Logan said, "How can you –? What are you doin'?"

Scott held up his hands in surrender. "Just looking."

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Logan yelled.

Scott put on his best earnest student expression; the one he'd used in the past to pretend that it cost him any mental energy whatsoever to grasp quadratic equations. "Sorry, did I miss something or isn't the answer to that question essentially…you?"

And who knew Logan was such a flouncer? 

"This is serious, Scott!"

It must be serious if Logan was calling him 'Scott', but he refused to get all flustered and pearl-clutchy like Logan seemed to be demanding. He had spent the last three weeks in utter misery because all he could think about was how much he wanted Logan to fuck him, preferably without too much asking first, because then it really wasn't his fault and he wasn't really cheating on Jean, and, damnit, if he could have ordered up some kind of mutant lust virus to justify putting out to Wolverine, he would have done. So, as far as he was concerned, today was his birthday and he really, really liked the present he'd got to unwrap. The only downside was that he felt pretty normal now, just pleasurably after-thrumming, and he still wanted Logan to fuck him, right after – or, perhaps, better, during – the shower they both so urgently needed.

"Don't you get it, Logan? We're clearly under some kind of outside influence. This isn't our fault. I didn't cheat on Jean."

Logan rolled his eyes. "That's not what matters here!"

"It is to me."

"Listen, tightass –"

"You weren't complaining about my ass five minutes ago, Logan. In fact, I seem to remember you really liking that it was so –"

Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him back against the wall, although more gently this time. "Look – the point is that I've been wanting to do this for weeks, It's all I've been thinking about. Two days ago you bent over to pick up a dropped pencil and I nearly took you over your own motorbike in front of your students."

Scott swallowed hard, because it wasn't as if he hadn't imagined Logan doing exactly that, many times, over the past few weeks. He had to close his eyes as the want shuddered through him and Logan shook him and said urgently, "Dammit, Scott! Stop being such a goddamned whore!"

Scott opened his eyes and deliberately moistened his lips. "I thought you liked it when I was all…submissive, Logan? Maybe I misinterpreted but I couldn't help noticing that you _really_ seemed to like it every time I made this sound…." He offered up a breathless, pained little whimper, and Logan visibly gave at the knees, having to slam one hand against the wall just to stay upright. He growled a reproof but his cock was visibly hardening.

Scott said, "Have you been having slaveboy fantasies about me, Logan?" Logan shot him an I-would-murder-you-right-now-if-I-didn't-so-urgently-want-to-keep-having-sex-with-you glare that Scott returned with a seraphic smile. "I knew it. You're so unevolved. In this scenario, do I call you 'Master'?"

Logan roared and shoved him back against the wall again, eyes black with desire. "You do exactly what I tell you to do, whenever I tell you to do it, you're always naked, you're usually on your knees, and you never, ever say 'No'."

That was when Jean burst into the Danger Room, bringing them clothes, glorious hair trailing like comet fire, breathless and perfumed with a heady scent of arousal and shame.

"Logan! Scott! I'm so sorry! This is all my fault!"

 

Jean explaining about the virus as they pulled on jeans and t-shirts didn't really change anything, Scott discovered. He had already worked out they had to be under some kind of influence because otherwise – well, otherwise he was just hot for Logan, which made no sense, because he really wasn't that kind of boy. What was interesting was the shared, shameful admission from Jean and Logan that long before the virus could possibly have been influencing _their_ behavior they had both liked the idea of him being all…subby with Wolverine.

Jean was caressing him apologetically. They had already covered the part where as he had no reason to feel guilty about his feelings for Logan because they _so weren't his fault_ it wouldn't be wrong of him to bring a guilty mind – or indeed body – to their shared bed, and that really it would be absolutely fine with her if he did that quite soon. Then she had kissed him with tremendous enthusiasm and he had realized that he was more than just forgiven, she wasn't kidding about finding him having sex with Logan a turn on. She was barely restraining herself from throwing him back down on the floor where Logan had done him and doing him herself. Logan growled jealously as they went on kissing and it was odd to think that he was now jealous of both of them. Oddly satisfying, too.

Scott tried to assume a slightly disappointed expression as he came up for air. "Really, Jean? You're turned on by the thought of me with Logan…?"

She was at once beautifully penitent and tautly aroused – her nipples were practically straining through her clothing. "You're just so…upright, Scott."

"Don't you mean 'uptight'?" Logan growled.

"It's just so exciting to think about you losing control like that. I would never want you getting hurt, but once I started thinking about him just…doing that to you, I couldn't seem to stop, and then I realized that whenever I saw you two together there was a part of me that was always…aroused."

Shame-faced, Logan muttered, "Been wanting to bang that boy scout ass of yours since I first saw it in black leather."

"Seriously?" Scott looked between them loftily. "You just want me to be some kind of passive sex-object you pass between you?"

Jean and Logan exchanged a lust-filled look. Faintly, Jean admitted, "Not just passive, Scott – submissive. I want to hear you say the right words while he's…taking you."

Scott said, "You mean something like – 'No, Logan, don't. It hurts. Oh no, oh no. Make it hurt some more'?"

He noted with interest the way that Jean and Logan – although their attention was riveted upon him as he licked his lips and winced artistically – both clutched at one another and shuddered with a soul-shivering force.

Scott began to feel _so_ much better. Apparently there were other ways to feel empowered while under the protective umbrella of a behaviour-influencing phage, and faking submission was one of them. He ducked one shoulder so he could look up at Logan from under his eyelashes as he said, "You're so much stronger than I am, Logan. What can I possibly do to stop you, if you insist on holding me down, and…taking me over and over again while I beg you for mercy…?"

Logan moaned in what was clearly quite profound pain, while Jean had to cling to him to stay upright. 

"Seriously, you two?" Scott demanded. "This Dom-Sub stuff really pushes your buttons that hard?"

"I'm sorry," Jean said abjectly. "I just can't help finding the thought of you submitting to Logan really…hot."

Scott looked at Logan. "And this really is your innermost fantasy? Me all…obedient?"

"Yes," Logan ground out – although, really, the painful bulge in his jeans was already answering for him. 

"Even though you know I'm faking?"

"That just makes it hotter!" Jean admitted. "It takes away the guilt."

Scott knew to a fraction of an inch how to send an optic beam bouncing off a dozen angled surfaces so that it would slice an apple through the core without touching a single person in the room. He knew how to achieve any pool shot, however impossible, by the same inner grasp of geometry. This, however, was a whole new way to bounce an impulse off a hard surface and then watch it hit home. This was _fun_.

He said, very meekly, "So, what if I was…say…naked and whimpering and there were handcuffs?"

Logan dropped onto one knee like he'd felled him with a punch and Jean offered an anguished moan while every window in the mansion rattled.

Innocently, Scott went on, still in his best submissive voice but taking care to enunciate every word: "What if I let Logan put me over his knee and spank me?"

So that was how you got the mighty Wolverine on all fours, moaning, he'd wondered about that. And Jean had her legs pressed so tightly together that there was a real danger she might hurt herself. This was really too easy.

With shaking fingers, she proffered a pamphlet. Scott took it from her with interest while she sank to the ground to cling to a still-moaning Logan. He noticed that this was the set of holiday cabins he and Jean had looked into a while back. He had vetoed staying there on the grounds that the strange alien iron-ore rich properties of the particular mountain range in which they nestled would block the power of Cerebro and make it impossible for the Professor to contact them in an emergency. Now it occurred to him, as it had surely already occurred to Jean, that the mountains would also, of course, prevent the Professor – or any other telepath – from learning what they were doing there, however hard or stickily they were doing it.

"Two rooms," Jean managed with difficulty. "You wouldn't know I was there, I swear, but if I could just…telepathically look in from time to time…?"

"You want the three of us to drive up to the middle of nowhere for a dirty weekend in which Logan animalistically dominates me in bed while I fake-whimper for mercy and you pull a Telepathic Peeping Tom?"

Jean said, "Yes. Oh God, Yes."

"Logan?"

Still on his knees, Logan ground out, "Yes, dammit, Summers, you prick-teasing son-of-a-bitch, yes! And just wait until we're all ourselves again, I'll make you whimper for real!"

Scott said, "Actually, in return for fulfilling your shared sick, twisted sexual fantasies, I would expect you both to be very, very nice to me…."

"Anything, Scott!"

Wolverine was a holdout for all of…three seconds before he caved, grimacing, and snapping out: "Okay, you win, Slim!"

Scott closed the pamphlet and put it back in Jean's hand. "Okay then – I guess you have some reservations to make. I'll go pack." And he strolled out of the Danger Room, whistling tunefully, and feeling happier – and undoubtedly more empowered – than he had since Logan had first arrived in his life. 

 

Hank met him in the corridor, wide-eyed and gabbling: "…fascinating! And I would just love to get a look at what exactly is lighting up in their limbic systems when you use that slave boy voice…."

"Not happening," Scott assured him. "At least not under laboratory conditions."

"If I could just apply a couple of electrodes…?"

"Nope."

"But science…!"

"Science will just have to get by without that particular piece of knowledge."

Hank said, "So, essentially you're just torturing them for your own satisfaction and not the furtherance of science at all?"

"Yes," Scott agreed. 

"While making them believe that you're doing them a huge favor?"

"Yes."

"Even though anyone who wasn't completely mind-fogged with lust would have worked out by now that a part of you loves the idea of being submissive in bed as long as you don't have to cede any self-respect to achieve it?"

Scott thought that one over for a moment with objective clarity and then nodded. "Yes."

"Scott!"

He had succeeded in shocking Hank, too.

He said, "Oh come on, Hank. Jean's being getting off on the idea of me warming Logan's bed for weeks now – how is that not some kind of betrayal? And Logan's been riding my ass since he got here. They have it coming. And anyway, it's not like they're not getting what they want, too. I see it as win-win for everyone. Also, we have plausible deniability – like Jean said, we're infected."

"The final results haven't come back from the lab yet. All we have are the preliminary findings that _suggest_ a viral infection is influencing your behavior in some as yet not fully ascertained fashion."

Scott waved that aside dismissively. "Of course it's a lust virus. Why else would I be hot for Logan every minute of every day – his animal magnetism?"

"But by concealing the sexual satisfaction that you will undoubtedly derive from this 'dirty weekend' scenario you suggested, you are nevertheless giving both Logan and Jean a false sense of obligation. You are, in fact, making no sacrifice of any kind but are only doing exactly what you would choose to do even if their wishes were of no account, while making them believe otherwise."

Scott said brightly, "Yes. Isn't it great?"

Hank narrowed his eyes. "The Professor was right about you. I used to worry that perhaps you were just a little _too_ morally upright and ethical and a straight arrow to have to lead people into battle. He said you had hidden depths. I had no idea how murky those depths could be, Scott Summers."

"You don't need to give me the 'with a great ass comes great responsibility' speech. I'm well aware that I mustn't use my powers for personal advantage – you know – except when it's fun." Scott grinned boyishly. "Look, I'm not responsible for my actions right now. Jean infected me. That means I get to have fun without having to feel guilty. How often – as an X-Man – does that ever happen?"

Hank called after him, "When you're completely yourself again, you'll feel bad about manipulating people who love you, Scott!"

Scott gave him a cheery wave as he strode off, long-legged and impossibly handsome, to pack for his dirty weekend. Over his shoulder, he called, "Don't count on it!" 

Hank turned to find Storm with a sheet of computer print out in her hands and a concerned expression on her face. "Is that their test results?"

She nodded. "I thought you should see them straight away."

Her expression should have given him warning but still it was a surprise. He read them through again and again and then looked up in shock. "You mean…?"

"It's not what we thought."

"It certainly isn't." Hank was lost in thought. "So, if Scott has been thinking about Logan in a sexual manner for the past three weeks it's…"

"Got nothing to do with any psy-virus," Storm admitted.

"And if Jean has really been aroused by the prospect of her long-term boyfriend abjectly submitting to Logan while she telepathically eavesdrops on the encounter, it's because…"

"Jean is apparently just a little kinky that way."

Hank's eyes widened. "And Logan…?"

"Just really wanted to have sex with Scott, it seems."

"So, the virus is in fact not responsible for –?"

"Any of their sexual yearnings or behavior in any way whatsoever."

"It just makes them crave sugary food?"

"Yes, it's a glucose-dependent mutation of the common cold. It makes whoever has it yearn for candy and cookies."

"You're certain?"

Storm nodded. "I ran the test three times to be sure and Moira confirmed it. Everything unrelated to overeating is all their own work. Do you want me to tell them?"

Hank thought about straight arrow Scott's blatant manipulation of Jean and Logan while apparently thinking himself affected by a behavior-altering virus and smiled a little grimly. 

"No, you know what, Ororo, my dear. I think we should let them do exactly what they planned – and have a nice, restful vacation to recover from their recent…illness. I'll tell Scott all about the test results when he gets back. It will, in fact, be my pleasure…."

##### The End


End file.
